The Man And The Hood

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

I turned away from Khalid's lifeless body, my boots squelching in the pool of blood that had spread across the floor. The metallic tang of it filled my nostrils, but I pushed the sensation aside.

There was no time to dwell on what I'd done. The children were still in the other room, bound and terrified.

I moved quickly, my body protesting every step. My ribs screamed with each breath, and my head throbbed where I'd hit the wall. But I ignored the pain. I'd endured worse. The League had made sure of that.


The door to the adjacent room creaked as I pushed it open. The children flinched at the sound, their wide eyes locking onto me.


The girl with the hollow stare—the oldest of them—shrank back, her chains rattling as she tried to press herself into the corner. I could see the fear in her eyes, the way her body trembled. She didn't see me as a savior. She saw me as another monster.


This part wasn't in my orders. I knew what Ra's had tasked me with: eliminate the target, leave no survivors. The usual cold, efficient mission. But I don't give a damn about orders anymore. Not when I could help these girls in the process. Not when I could make a choice.


I approached the oldest of them, a girl no older than thirteen. Her chains were heavy around her neck, arms, and legs, the cold metal a harsh reminder of her captivity.


"It's okay," I said, my voice low and steady. I kept my movements slow, deliberate, as I approached her. "I'm not going to hurt you."


She didn't believe me. I didn't blame her. After what she'd been through, trust was a luxury she couldn't afford. I crouched down in front of her, careful not to get too close, and pulled a small lock pick from my belt.


The chains around her wrists were thick, but the lock was simple. It took only a few seconds to free her.


She stared at me, her eyes wide and unblinking, as I moved to the next child. One by one, I unlocked their chains, my hands steady despite the pain coursing through my body.


The younger ones whimpered, their cries soft and broken, but they didn't resist. They were too exhausted, too broken, to fight.


When the last chain fell away, I stood and stepped back, giving them space. "We need to move," I said, keeping my voice calm but firm. "This place isn't safe. Can you walk?"


The oldest girl nodded hesitantly, her eyes never leaving mine. She helped the younger ones to their feet, her movements slow and careful.


They clung to her like she was their only lifeline, and maybe she was. I didn't know how long they'd been here, how much they'd endured, but I could see the strength in her. She was a survivor.


I led them out of the room, my senses on high alert. The compound was quiet now, but I knew better than to let my guard down. Khalid's men were dead, but there could still be stragglers, reinforcements, or worse. I wasn't taking any chances.


We moved through the halls, the children following close behind me. I kept my pace slow, matching theirs, but my eyes never stopped scanning our surroundings. Every shadow, every sound, set my nerves on edge.


Ra's mission might be over but mine wasn't over yet. Not until the kids were safe.


The jungle outside was just as oppressive as before, the air thick with humidity and the scent of decay. The moonlight barely penetrated the dense canopy, casting the ground in a patchwork of light and shadow.


I paused at the edge of the treeline, listening for any signs of movement. The jungle was alive with the sounds of insects and distant animals, but there was no sign of human activity.


"Stay close," I said, glancing back at the children. They nodded, their faces pale but determined. I could see the fear in their eyes, but there was something else too—a flicker of hope. They knew they were getting out.


We moved through the jungle, the underbrush crunching softly beneath our feet. I kept to the shadows, my eyes scanning the darkness for any threats.


The children followed silently, their small hands clutching at each other for support. The oldest girl stayed at the back, her eyes darting nervously over her shoulder. She was watching our six, whether she realized it or not. Smart kid.


The trek was slow, but we made progress. My body ached with every step, but I pushed through the pain. The kids needed me to be strong, to get them out of here. I couldn't afford to falter.


After what felt like an eternity, we reached the extraction point—a small clearing where a helicopter was supposed to pick me. I activated the beacon on my wrist, the signal blinking softly in the darkness. The pilot would see it. He'd come.


The children huddled together in the clearing, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hope. I stood a few feet away, my back to them, my eyes scanning the treeline. The jungle was quiet now, too quiet. It set my teeth on edge.


"Is someone coming?" the oldest girl asked, her voice barely above a whisper.


"Yes," I said, not looking at her. "They'll be here soon."


She didn't say anything else, but I could feel her eyes on me. She was studying me, trying to figure me out. I didn't blame her. I was a stranger, a shadow in the night who had appeared out of nowhere to save them. She had no reason to trust me, but she didn't have a choice.

The sound of rotor blades cut through the silence, growing louder with each passing second. I glanced up, relief flooding through me as the helicopter came into view. It descended slowly, the downdraft whipping through the trees and sending leaves swirling through the air.


I turned to the children, gesturing for them to stay back until the helicopter touched down. They nodded, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear. The oldest girl stepped forward, her hand gripping the arm of one of the younger kids.


"What happens now?" she asked, her voice trembling.


"You'll be taken to the nearest town. You and girls would go to the police, they would take you home." I said, my voice firm. "You're safe now."


She stared at me for a long moment, her eyes searching mine. Then, slowly, she nodded. "Thank you," she whispered.


I didn't respond. I didn't know what to say. I wasn't a hero. I wasn't even a good person. I was just a man who had done what needed to be done.


The helicopter landed, and I helped the children board, my movements quick but gentle.


"Drop them off at the nearest town, then come pick us up." I said to the pilot, referring to the other who Ra's had sent to supervise me on this mission.


The oldest girl was the last to climb in. She paused at the door, her eyes locking onto mine.


"What's your name?" she asked.


I hesitated. "Jason," I said finally.


She nodded, her expression unreadable. "Thank you, Jason."


I didn't say anything. I just stepped back, watching as the helicopter lifted off and disappeared into the night sky. The sound of the rotor blades faded, leaving only the sounds of the jungle.


I stood there for a long moment, my body aching, my mind racing. The mission was over. The kids were safe. But the voice in my head—the one I'd been trying to silence—was still there, whispering in the back of my mind.


"You can't escape me."


I clenched my fists, my jaw tightening. Maybe I couldn't. Maybe that part of me—the darkness, the rage, the violence—would always be there. But for now, it didn't matter. I'd done what I came to do.

- - -

[General POV]

As he returned into the main area of the compound, he came face to face with the League member who had led the mission. The man was standing over the bodies, his expression unreadable as he surveyed the carnage. His eyes flicked up to meet Jason's.

There was a brief pause. The League member didn't say anything at first, just gave Jason a small nod. A silent acknowledgment of what had been done. It wasn't much, but Jason didn't expect much from them.

"We are done here," the League member said, his voice as calm as ever. "Time to regroup and head back to base."

Jason didn't respond immediately. He just nodded, his mind elsewhere. He followed the man out of the building, his thoughts churning as they walked. The mission had been successful, and now, the aftermath would follow. There would be questions, of course. But for now, he didn't care.

The world was full of scum—people like Khalid, like his guards, the ones who thought they were untouchable, who thought they could break others without consequence. But Jason had just put two of them down. He'd removed them from the equation. He didn't have a lot of respect for their kind, but he wasn't about to let them die without serving a purpose.

At least now, they'd serve a better one. "Fertilizer for the earth," he muttered to himself, a faint grim smile pulling at his lips. It wasn't poetic, but it was fitting. They were dead, and they wouldn't be forgotten. Not by him.

As they moved through the jungle, the humidity clinging to their skin, Jason couldn't shake the image of the girls' faces. The fear, the hope, the uncertainty. He knew he couldn't save everyone, but tonight, he'd made a difference. And for now, that was enough.

The League member glanced at him, his expression unreadable. "You did well," he said finally, his voice low. "But remember, emotions have no place in our work."

Jason didn't respond. He just kept walking, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. Emotions might not have a place in their work, but they had a place in him. And tonight, they'd driven him to do something more than just follow orders.

- - -

Jason's body ached with every step as he made his way through the winding corridors of the League's mountain stronghold. The mission had taken its toll—his ribs burned, his knuckles were raw, and every muscle screamed in protest.

Blood, dried and fresh, clung to his uniform like war paint, a grim reminder of the battle he had just survived. The wounds he had sustained weren't just physical.

The voice. That—thing—he had seen, had felt, was still lingering in the back of his mind, like a shadow refusing to fade. But he shoved it down, burying it beneath layers of exhaustion and discipline. Whatever it was, it was his problem. Not Ra's.

Not yet.

The grand hall of the stronghold was dimly lit, torches casting flickering light against the cold stone walls. The scent of incense and aged parchment filled the air, mixing with the ever-present scent of blood and steel.

The League was always in motion—figures moved in the shadows, whispers of assassins exchanging information, the clinking of weapons being sharpened. It was a place of discipline, of purpose. A place where weakness had no place.

Jason had learned that the hard way.

At the end of the hall, standing like a statue carved from marble, was Ra's al Ghul. The Demon's Head.

His piercing green eyes met Jason's as soon as he stepped into the room, as if he had sensed his presence long before he arrived.

Ra's stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture regal, his expression unreadable. Beside him, Talia watched in silence, her gaze sharp, assessing.

Jason strode forward, his movements precise despite the pain gnawing at his body. He stopped a few feet away, lowering to one knee in a practiced gesture of respect.

"It is done." His voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of exhaustion beneath it.

Ra's studied him for a moment, then inclined his head slightly. "Rise, my boy."

Jason did as he was told, straightening despite the dull ache in his ribs.

"Khalid?" Ra's asked, though it wasn't really a question.

"Dead."

Ra's nodded, pleased. "And the compound?"

"Erased. No trace of our involvement."

Ra's eyes flickered with approval, but Jason caught the subtle shift in his expression. He knows there's more.

"And yet," Ra's continued, "you seem… troubled."

Jason held his gaze. "I took some hits from his personal guard who possessed superhuman powers. Turned out to be a tougher fight than expected."

Ra's exhaled through his nose, stepping forward with the deliberate grace of a man who had lived far longer than his body suggested.

"You have endured much, my son. But your strength has not failed you. You have once again proven your worth to the League."

He reached out, placing a hand on Jason's shoulder, the gesture almost paternal. "You are shaping into something remarkable."

Jason felt the weight of those words. Ra's didn't offer praise lightly.

But he also knew Ra's was testing him.

The old man's gaze lingered, studying him.

Jason forced himself to remain still, to keep his breathing even. He couldn't afford to let anything slip—not the strange vision, not the voice, not the creeping feeling that something inside him was shifting, changing.

He was killed without hesitation. He had followed orders. He had done everything Ra's expected of him.

And yet…

He had freed the captives.

It had not been in the mission parameters. It had not been necessary.

And he wasn't sure what it meant that he had done it anyway.

Ra's finally released his shoulder and took a step back. "Rest, my boy. You have earned it."

Jason nodded, offering a small bow of his head before turning to leave.

As he walked away, he could feel Talia's gaze boring into his back. She knew something was off.

But Jason kept walking.

For now, his secret was still his own.

For now.

- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The cold water cascaded over Jason's body, washing away the blood, sweat, and grime of the mission.

The droplets stung as they hit the fresh cuts and bruises littering his skin, but the pain was a welcome distraction.

It grounded him, kept him tethered to the present. His muscles screamed in protest as he moved, every motion a reminder of the brutal fight he had just survived.

The metahuman's fists had left their mark—his ribs ached with every breath, and his side was a patchwork of purple and black bruises.

He winced as he reached for the soap, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against the tender flesh.

"I must have broken a rib or two," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the sound of the water. He took a deep breath, steeling himself against the pain as he began to wash the blood from his skin.

The water ran red for a moment before clearing, the evidence of his violence swirling down the drain. "Might have to pay a visit to the infirmary later," he added, his tone dry, almost sarcastic, as if he were mocking his own injuries.

The shower was agonizing but necessary. It was a ritual, a way to cleanse not just his body but his mind.

The cold water helped numb the pain, both physical and mental, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to close his eyes and let the water drown out the world.

But the peace didn't last. The memory of the mission—of the children, of the metahuman, of himself—crept back in, unbidden and unwelcome.

He stepped out of the shower, the cold air hitting his damp skin like a slap. He grabbed a towel and dried off quickly, his movements mechanical, almost robotic.

His mind was elsewhere, replaying the events of the night over and over again.

The fight.

The voice.

The figure in the shadows. It all felt so real, so vivid, like a nightmare he couldn't wake up from.

He dropped onto his bed, the thin mattress offering little comfort. His body ached, his mind raced, and exhaustion weighed heavily on him.

"So much for my first mission," he muttered, his voice tinged with bitterness. He stared at the ceiling, his thoughts swirling like a storm.

The mission had been a success—Khalid was dead, the compound was destroyed, and the League's objectives had been met. But at what cost?

The image of the children chained to the walls flashed in his mind, their wide, terrified eyes haunting him. He had freed them, yes, but it didn't feel like enough. It never felt like enough.

And then there was the other thing—the version of him he had seen, the version of himself that had emerged from the shadows of his consciousness while in a concussive state, whispering those dark, insidious words. "You know you can't escape me."

Jason clenched his fist, his knuckles white as he fought to steady his trembling hand. The fear he had felt in that moment—the overwhelming, paralyzing fear—was still there, lingering just beneath the surface.

He tried to rationalize it, to convince himself it had been an illusion, a trick of his mind brought on by exhaustion and adrenaline.

But deep down, he knew it was more than that. It was a part of him, a part he had tried to bury, to ignore, to forget.

He closed his eyes, willing the thoughts to stop, but they only grew louder, more insistent. The voice, the figure, the chains—it all felt so real, so alive. He could still feel the weight of its presence, pressing down on him, suffocating him.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus, to push the thoughts aside. He couldn't afford to dwell on it, not now. Not when Ra's watchful eyes are on him.

But as he lay there, the exhaustion finally overtaking him, the thoughts crept back in, unbidden and unwelcome. The voice whispered in the back of his mind, soft and insidious. "You know you need me."

Jason's eyes snapped open, his heart pounding in his chest. He sat up, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, his fingers trembling slightly. He couldn't escape it.

No matter how hard he tried, the voice was always there, lurking in the shadows of his mind, waiting for him to let down his guard.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to calm down. He couldn't afford to lose control, not now. Not ever.

With a heavy sigh, he lay back down, his body sinking into the thin mattress. His eyelids grew heavy, the exhaustion finally catching up to him. He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep, to escape the thoughts, if only for a little while.

But as he drifted off, the voice followed him into the darkness, whispering those same haunting words.

"You can't escape me!!"

- - -

Deep in thoughts and standing at the large window of his office, Ra's al Ghul stared over the mountains and into the night sky when a knock at his door disrupted his thoughts.

Giving the go ahead, the door opened and the League member tasked with leading the mission Jason went on, walked in, returning for a report different from the previous.

He was tasked with leading the extermination of the terrorist group but to not interfere with Jason who was tasked with claiming Khalid's head, rather keep a watchful eye on him and observe from a rational distance.

While Jason battled the metahuman and eliminated his target, he watched the whole thing from the sidelines.

When Jason was near death and all hope seemed to be lost, he did not even flinch as he obeyed the order given to him by Ra's al Ghul, and only observed without interference.

"My Lord." He greeted with a bow, then stood up straight in wait for questioning.

"So tell me, how did the boy fare on the mission?" He asked, walking over behind his desk as he took a seat.

Clearing his throat, he began. "He did well to eliminate the target but he ran into a bit of trouble while on it."

"What kind of trouble?" With a cocked brow and a hint of curiosity for detail in his tone, Ra's asked the man.

"The target had a personal bodyguard who turned out to be a metahuman." He replied.

"Hmm...A metahuman. He did mention Khalid's bodyguard was quite a foe." To Ra's It couldn't be helped, one was bound to encounter unaccounted variables during missions.

After a brief moment of pondering the thought, he reached for his chin as he stroked his beard. "What powers did he possess?"

The man briefed Ra's on the enhanced characteristics he had observed from the fight. But to Ra's that sounded like a large man with superhuman strength and impenetrable skin, basically what he was.

"How did he fare against this person?"

"He fought quite well with little unnecessary movements, although he was overwhelmed and was so close to losing the fight." This made him even more curious as to how Jason managed to end this adversary of his.

Without a word from Ra's, the man continued, giving him the final details.

"The eyes huh, that was good judgment." Ra's remarked, Jason's training appears to be quite effective as he seems to be even more of a quick study than he anticipated.

"He thinks fast on his feet." He muttered, ruminating on Jason's battle IQ.

"That would be all." He said as he gestured a dismissive wave towards the man.

With a slight bow, he pivoted and proceeded towards the exit of the office but came to an abrupt pause.

He looked down for a second as if contemplating something. Ra's noticed this and asked the man, "Anything else?"

"Yes, my Lord." He replied as he turned towards him. "I do not know if this is of enough importance to be included in the report. The target had a number of enslaved underaged children, most likely for trafficking. Jason freed the children after disposing of him."

"Hmm."

Without a definite response, he dismissed him. "You may leave." The man bowed once more and exited the office.

- - -

[Jason Todd's POV]

Strolling down within the massive compound was something I find myself doing these days since I was unable to partake in training, which sucked by the way.

It's been over a week since that mission and the geezer hasn't asked me about any sort of detailed information from the mission. He's just been making me do more meditation each passing day.

He only advised me to learn from the fight's experience. Maybe the guy who gave the report never mentioned the children.

I leaned over the edge of the upper floor's balcony, watching the various exercises below.

Ra's may have suspended me from combat training, but he didn't say anything about not watching others train so I could make mental notes of moves that catch my eye while I watch the others train.

I looked over to Damian who happened to be having his ass whooped by an opponent who wasn't pulling their punches at all.

They might probably be sick of the kid's arrogance and wanting to teach him a solid lesson like I do, not caring if he was the heir to the League or whatever.

They disarmed him with a swift manoeuvre and swept him off his feet. He landed on his butt and his own blade was pointed right up his face.

The look of frustration on his face was so priceless that I could not help the laugh of mockery which escaped me.

The pressure from my mockery must have been so intense that he looked up, gazing right at me with furrowed brows, wanting to channel his anger towards me in an attempt to mask his wounded pride.

Fuck!!

I coughed as I crouched a bit, leaning more upon the wooden edge as I reached for my ribs as my insides burned with excruciating pain. It hurt like hell to even laugh.

Before completing that thought, I let out another series of laughter, the pain was totally worth the sight of Damien's walk of shame and embarrassment as he left the arena.

Due to the League's custom of concealing their identities, I don't know who his opponent was but they seemed quite interesting.

A person who is willing to humiliate that brat so well that I couldn't help it but laugh through the pains from my ribcage, needs to share a drink with me while we discuss how much we enjoy tormenting the brats pompous spirit.

Yeah, call me a bully or whatever I don't care. I know he is just a kid but that pest needs to be humbled big time before he gets any older. Who knows what he might turn into when he hits his rebellious teenage phase.

Taking deep breaths as I looked up at the sky, wondering if the universe had bestowed this role upon me. If so, I enthusiastically obliged.

Well, too bad there is no way of telling that guy apart from the rest. Still in thoughts as I looked over the training ground in search of some significant feature of Damian's opponent that could help me tell him apart from the rest, the geezer's voice came from behind me.

I was almost spooked by his sudden appearance but gave no reaction to confirm it, maintaining my nonchalant demeanour without even turning to look his way.

"You seem to be in good spirits ." He said, walking to my side as he joined me at the edge of the balcony.

"Well, I guess I woke up on the good side of bed this morning. Or would you prefer I let myself look as depressing as my insides feel?" I replied without averting my gaze from the on going training match below.

With the various training so far, I've developed senses so kin that I could sense the presence of anyone within my space, the air has some way of giving their presence away.

But this geezer concealed his presence so well that I didn't even notice him until he spoke.

"If I must say, it is quite good to see you in such a moo–"

Unable to hold back my curious thoughts, I blurted out one of the questions in my head, cutting him off before he could finish his sentence. "Are you Dracula or something?"

For a brief second, his face had a confused expression. "What do you mean, boy?" He asked.

Since I woke up in this base, this my first time glimpsing an expression other than the usual stoic look I was beginning to think was hatched on his face.

"That came out wrong." Rephrasing my words by giving a more elaborate explanation, I continued. "I mean, you walked up from behind me and got to my side without the most minimalistic hint of your presence."

"Oh..." He let out an extremely brief laugh, probably still amused by me asking if he was Dracula just cause' I couldn't sense him.

"It's an extremely advanced level of stealth. One I might teach you in due time." He replied.

"Clearly, I'm currently on an unavoidable and mandatory break from combat training. It wouldn't hurt to get a few pointers for that level of stealth."

He mused on the topic for a while, while I prayed he wouldn't dismiss it and make me do more meditative exercise.

"That level of stealth requires a level of mental fortitude which you currently lack, boy."

"Then teach me how to build such mental fortitude." I pressed on.

"You currently undergo the basic level of such training." He replied with a raised brow, having on an expression like a teacher who expects his student to already know the answer to whatever the fuck they were talking about.

'For fuck sake!' I mentally exclaimed, the answer seemed to be the one practice I enjoyed the least.

"Meditation." I replied, earning a slight nod of approval from him.

"It is a practice that brings calm to one's mind and being."

"Then why do I find it hard to grasp? Almost like I'm wasting my time just sitting with my eyes closed."

He did not give an immediate reply but stroked his grey beard in thought as he dug into his purse of wisdom before giving his response.

"Elaborate on your experience ." He asked as if seeking deeper insight before he concluded on my diagnosis.

"At times it feels like there is so much turmoil within my mind that it feels like a fractured and puzzled mess. Even when it gets calm during our practices, there's an uproar which expels that state of bliss."

He was my mentor, it was only right I gave him a glimpse of my own struggles and roadblocks I experienced with his teachings.

"Come with me." He turned and I followed behind him.

We walked down one of the halls until we arrived at a dead end. At this point, with a side eye I looked at the geezer with the thought of maybe he was finally going senile but no one had noticed it until now.

He reached for the stone wall and pushed in a brick sized block. The stone wall did a rotation of one-eighty degrees, revealing a stairway which seemed so deep as if leading deep within the earth.

"Hmmm, a secret passage." For some reason I wasn't surprised by that. In fact, I'd say it was to be expected that the geezer would have some secret passages or at least a false wall.

As we stepped in about three steps down, the entrance shut close behind our backs.

I turned to observe if I could spot the way to open it from this side but it was too dark to see anything, while he continued down, eyes forward without even turning for a glimpse over his shoulders.

We walked down the dark and creepy stairway for a couple of minutes when a glow of light came into sight.

It appeared to radiate from the curved corner to the right as it shine against the left wall. At least there was light at the end of the tunnel. Pun intended.

- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

We arrived at the opening where the light was coming from—a cavern deep beneath the earth with a glowing pool of green water radiating in the near distance.

We stopped about three meters from the pool. Questions buzzed in my head, but the geezer just stood there, staring at that ominously glowing water like it was his long-lost lover.

It looked like something out of a kid's cartoon—one of those witch's brews, all neon and swirling, except this wasn't some muddy sludge. The liquid was clear, almost too clean.

Wait, is this his secret to not looking like a thousand-year-old mummy? Some fancy-ass well of longevity elixir?

I crossed my arms. "So. Why are we here?" I asked, unsure of his purpose for taking an injured kid down to a secret location with a mysterious pool of water.

With a sudden halt, a thought came to mind. "Don't tell me you have an aquatic beast for a pet and it's inside that green pool."

Ra's turned, his robes doing that dramatic sweep thing he probably practiced in a mirror. "This, my boy, is a restorative pool. Some call it the Fountain of Youth. But it is known as the Lazarus Pit."

"The Lazarus Pit?" I muttered. "You mean this is the magic bathtub that yanked me back from the dead?" It looked nothing like what I had imagined.

"Yes, it is." He crouched, dipping his fingers into the water like he was testing a damn bath.

I scoffed. "When you and Talia talked about the Lazarus Pit, I always imagined—well, an actual pit. Some murky, ancient hole filled with magic sludge that could heal the dying." My voice dripped with disappointment. "This looks more like a hunted jacuzzi."

Ra's ignored the jab. "Remove your clothes and enter." He adjured.

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"Of course I did." I guess I'd just pretend that didn't sound kinky at all.

I threw my hands up. "Oh, sure. Because obviously the next step in 'mystical resurrection water' protocol is stripping down. What's next, a guided meditation? Do I get a cucumber slice for my eyes too?"

He didn't even twitch. "The waters must touch your skin directly to work."

Grumbling, I peeled off my cloths, tossing it aside. "If this turns out to be some weird cult baptism, I'm setting something on fire."

As I stepped forward to dive in, the water shimmered ominously, reminding me of the eerie depths that might hide the Flying Dutchman—an image stuck in my mind since that strange afternoon at a roadside diner. Back then, during some relentless "reckon training" the old geezer had forced on me in that no-name town, I'd caught a bizarre underwater sponge show on the flickering TV, and the comparison now had a haunting image.

The water was warm as I stepped in—one foot, then the other—sinking deeper until I was fully submerged. The glow pulsed around me, casting eerie shadows on the cavern walls.

So… what now?

Then it hit.

Fire exploded through my veins, like my blood had been swapped with molten metal. My muscles locked, my lungs burned—

With a choked gasp, I burst out of the water, scrambling for the edge like the pit itself was trying to drag me under. Ra's stood there, holding out a towel like this was all playing according to plan.

Not even gonna ask where the hell he pulled that from.

I snatched it, wiping my face. "What the hell was that?"

"The healing effects of the Lazarus Pit," he said, like that explained anything. "How are your wounds?"

"What about my wou—" I cut myself off.

I shouldn't have been able to move like that. Not with the cracked ribs, the stitched-up gash on my side—

Slowly, I raised a hand, pressing against my bandaged torso. No pain.

I ripped off the wrappings. Nothing but smooth skin.

"Huh." I prodded the spot where a knife had gone in a week ago. "I feel… okay."

Ra's just smirked.

"The location of this sacred pool is known to only a few," he said. "Merely being a member of the League does not grant you this privilege."

"Hmm, I see." I rolled my shoulders, testing my range of motion. "I gotta admit, it's fascinating. But–why?

Why show me this sacred place and let me use the pit to heal my wounds?"

He studied me for a moment while stroking his beard, before answering.

"Think of it as a welcoming gift into the League." He replied, clasping arms behind his back as he turned towards the pool.

"There are people who would kill and exhaust all sorts of resources, if they believe that it might give them access to the Lazarus pit."

"Can't say I am surprised by that, people would do anything for the power to sustain life. But that doesn't answer my question, why me?" I pressed on.

The damp air of the cavern clung to my skin as I unwound the last of the bandages from my torso. The faint, eerie glow of the Lazarus Pit cast flickering reflections across the stone walls, painting the chamber in shades of emerald and shadow.

Ra's al Ghul stood with his arms clasped behind his back, his silhouette framed against the luminous waters. His voice was smooth, almost amused, as he spoke.

"Welcome to the League, boy."

I flexed my shoulders, testing the absence of pain. The wounds that had plagued me for days were gone—vanished as if they had never existed. The Pit's power was unsettling, intoxicating.

"There are also men who would burn cities to ash if they believed it would grant them a single drop from these waters," Ra's continued, his gaze fixed on the swirling depths. "Power over life and death is a rare temptation—one few can resist."

I smirked, rolling my neck. "No one wants to die, especially when you are rich and powerful. People will do anything to cheat death."

"Thanks for healing me, Ra's Now I can get back to training or at least sleep comfortably." A hint of excitement mixed with my voice.

Ra's turned his head slowly, the movement deliberate, predatory. His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"Oh, don't thank me just yet, boy." His voice was a low purr, laced with dark amusement. "The real work begins now."

I raised an eyebrow. "That sounded more like a threat than a pep talk."

His chuckle was velvet and venom. "Call it what you will. You won't be smiling for long."

I matched his tone with a grin of my own. "You miss training me, don't you? Admit it—you've been bored without me around to keep you entertained with my daily dose of torture disguised under the term, training."

Ra's exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "Enjoy your humor while it lasts. You'll need it." He stated as we approached the cavern' exit.

As we ascended the stairway. The air grew cooler as we neared the surface, the weight of secrecy pressing between us.

- - -

"As you must already know," he began, his tone like tempered steel, "The location of the Lazarus Pit is a secret that transcends life and death. You will guard it with your last breath. Should you ever betray this trust, the consequences will be...absolute."

The air thickened, pressing in like an unseen hand around Jason's throat. This wasn't a request—it was a decree. The Demon's Head did not make idle threats.

Jason met Ra's' gaze without flinching, though the gravity of the moment settled deep in his bones. "I understand," he replied, his voice stripped of its usual defiance. "You have my word. No one will hear of it from me—not even under torture."

Ra's studied him, his dark eyes unreadable. For a heartbeat, Jason wondered if the ancient warlord saw his resolve as 'weak.'

But then, with a slow nod, Ra's turned away, the helm of his robe whispering against the false wall as he repeated the previous process as their time of entry.

With practiced ease, Ra's pressed his palm against an unremarkable section of the wall. A mechanism groaned, and the false panel swung open, revealing the training grounds beyond. Sunlight spilled in, harsh after the Pit's eerie glow.

Outside, the clash of steel and the grunts of combat filled the air. Damian led the drills with lethal precision, his movements a mirror of his mother's relentless grace. Talia observed from the sidelines, her sharp eyes missing nothing—until they landed on Ra's and Jason emerging out of nowhere and unto the training ground.

"Father," she greeted, though her voice carried an edge of wariness. "I didn't expect you to join us today." Her gaze flicked to Jason, lingering on the absence of bandages, the lack of a limp, or even a sight of a bruised skin or scar on his face.

"You're healed."

Ra's clasped his hands behind his back, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "The Pit's waters work swiftly."

Talia's breath hitched, barely perceptible. "You showed him the Pit?" The question was a blade wrapped in silk.

"He needed to be at full strength for what comes next."

Jason shifted, the weight of the unspoken tension pressing down. "Yeah, about that—where exactly are we going?"

Ra's didn't look at him. "Pack for a week. Wilderness survival gear. Weapons of your choice. Meet me here in fifteen minutes."

"You didn't answer the question," Jason pointed out, crossing his arms.

"Consider it a test of adaptability," Ra's replied, already walking away as Talia followed close behind.

- - -

Talia waited until Jason was out of earshot before stepping closer to her father, her voice a hushed whisper. "You've never entrusted the Pit's location to an outsider. Not even to Bruce."

Ra's exhaled, slow and measured. "Jason Todd is no longer an outsider, daughter. He is a weapon being forged by the League—one that must be honed without cracks."

"And Damian?" Talia's gaze flicked to her son, who was now drilling two League assassins at once, his strikes fiercer than necessary. "He sees Jason as a rival. This will only stoke that fire."

"Good," Ra's murmured. "Fire tempers steel. Let him chase Jason's shadow. It will make him stronger."

A League operative approached, bowing as he presented a meticulously packed rucksack. Ra's took it without acknowledgment, his attention fixed on the horizon.

Jason returned moments later, his own bag slung over his shoulder, a knife strapped to his thigh. "Alright, Sensei. Lead the way."

Ra's arched a brow, tossing the heavy bag for Jason to carry. "This isn't a vacation, boy. You will train until your muscles scream. Until your mind breaks. And then—you will train more."

Jason grinned, sharp and feral. "Yeah, yeah. Just try to keep up, old man."

As they strode toward the gates, Talia watched them go, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her dagger.

"Be careful, Father," she murmured. "That one bites."

Ra's didn't look back. "So do I."

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The crisp air bit at my skin as I trudged through the dense woods, the weight of the camping backpack digging into my shoulders.

It had been over ninety minutes since we left the compound, and the old man—Ra's al Ghul, the Demon's Head himself—hadn't said a word since we started this little nature hike. Typical. The guy loved his dramatic silences almost as much as he loved hearing himself talk.

The woods were alive with the sounds of nature—rustling leaves, chirping birds, the occasional snap of a twig underfoot. It was almost peaceful, if you ignored the fact that I was following a centuries-old megalomaniac into the middle of nowhere with no idea what he had planned.

The snow had stopped falling, thank God, but the ground was still a mess of slush and mud. My boots were caked with it, and my jeans were soaked up to the knees.

Ra's moved ahead of me with that infuriating grace of his, his hands clasped behind his back like he was out for a leisurely stroll. Meanwhile, I was sweating under the weight of the backpack, my breath coming out in visible puffs in the freezing air.

We weren't even dressed for this weather—just our normal clothes. No coats, no gloves, nothing. Because why would Ra's al Ghul bother with something as mundane as warmth?

He stopped suddenly, and I nearly ran into him. He stood there, staring ahead like he was contemplating the mysteries of the universe.

Then, without a word, he turned right, pushing through a thicket of waist-high bushes and towering trees. The canopy above was so dense that barely any sunlight filtered through, casting the area in an eerie, almost oppressive darkness.

"Great," I muttered under my breath. "Just the kind of place I'd pick for a picnic. If I were, you know, a serial killer."

Ra's didn't respond. Of course he didn't. He just kept walking, his movements smooth and deliberate, like he was gliding over the uneven terrain. I stumbled after him, cursing under my breath as branches snagged at my clothes and scratched my arms.

The muffled sound of running water grew louder as we pressed on, and eventually, we emerged into a small clearing.

Ra's stopped at the edge of a shallow stream, his gaze fixed on the waterfall that cascaded down a rocky outcrop.

It was beautiful, in a secluded, untouched kind of way. The water sparkled in the faint sunlight, and the air was filled with the soothing sound of it rushing over the rocks.

"We've arrived," Ra's said, breaking the silence at last. His voice was calm, almost serene, like he hadn't just dragged me through a mile of wilderness without explanation.

I caught up to him, dropping the backpack with a grunt. "Yeah, no kidding. Mind telling me where 'here' is exactly? Or is that part of the whole mysterious mentor shtick?"

He turned to me, his expression unreadable. "This is where you will be training for the next three days to a week, depending on how long it takes you to grasp the lessons I will be teaching you."

I raised an eyebrow. "Training? In the middle of nowhere? With no food, no shelter, and probably a million bloodthirsty mosquitoes? Sounds like a blast."

Ra's ignored my sarcasm, gesturing for me to follow him again. We walked to a clearing near the riverbank, where he told me to drop the bag. He picked up his sword and a length of rope, then motioned for me to follow him deeper into the woods.

"What kind of training requires us to be in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere?" I asked, my tone dripping with sarcasm. "Is this some kind of survivalist boot camp? Because I've heard about the whole 'eat bugs and drink your own pee' thing. Not a fan."

Ra's didn't answer. He just kept walking, his silence as infuriating as ever. We stopped in front of a massive tree, its trunk so thick it would've taken an axe-wielding man hours to bring it down.

Ra's drew his sword in one fluid motion, and before I could even blink, he delivered three precise horizontally patterned strikes. The tree fell with a loud crash, splitting into two large logs.

I stared at him, my mouth hanging open. "Okay, that was… impressive. But also kind of overkill. You know we are literally surrounded by easily attainable firewood, right?"

He sheathed his sword and handed me the rope. "Use this to pull both of them back, together."

I took the rope, glaring at him. "Oh, sure. No problem. I'll just drag a couple of tree trunks through the woods like a pack mule. Why didn't I think of that?"

He clasped his hands behind his back and walked away, leaving me to wrestle with the logs. I tied the rope around them as tightly as I could, then slung it over my shoulder and started pulling.

It was hell. The logs caught on every rock and root, and my muscles burned with the effort. Sweat dripped down my face, and my breath came in ragged gasps.

"This isn't training," I muttered under my breath. "This is punishment. Probably for asking too many questions. Note to self: stop prying into the life of the immortal ninja warlord. He doesn't like it."

By the time I dragged the logs back to the clearing, I was ready to collapse. Ra's had set up a small fire pit, and he gestured for me to place the logs on either side of it. I dropped them with a groan, then sank to the ground, trying to catch my breath.

Ra's sat across from me, his expression as calm as ever. "While you catch your breath, I believe it is best I keep to my word and give you answers to your questions earlier."

I shot him a look. "Really? Now you're feeling chatty? After you made me haul half a forest back here? Gee, thanks."

He chuckled softly, stroking his beard. "I spent my years cultivating wisdom and accumulating knowledge, practicing and mastering all sorts of martial arts. My later years were spent on the study and practice of ancient esoteric knowledge."

"Esoteric knowledge, huh?" I said, raising an eyebrow. "You mean like how to be cryptic and annoy the hell out of people? Because you've got that down pat."

He Ignored the jab. "Having lived as long as I have, there are downsides. Watching humanity repeat the same mistakes, generation after generation, is… frustrating."

"Yeah, I bet," I said, my tone dripping with sarcasm. "Must be tough, being all wise and immortal while the rest of us idiots keep screwing up.

But hey, at least you've got your priorities straight. Like bringing me back from the dead. Speaking of which—why me?" I've been meaning to ask him that. Last time I did, he found a way to evade providing a direct answer.

Ra's met my gaze, his expression serious. "Because a mistake I made cost you your life. You were collateral damage." He replied.

I stared at him, my sarcasm momentarily forgotten. "What kind of mistake?"

"You were at the wrong place at the wrong time," he said, his voice heavy with something that almost sounded like regret. "You were caught in an explosion caused by someone I never should have employed."

I opened my mouth to ask more, but he cut me off. "You've rested enough. It's time to commence your training."

I groaned, dragging myself to my feet. "Of course it is. Because why would we waste time talking when we could be doing more manual labor?"

Ra's didn't respond. He just stood there, his hands clasped behind his back as always, looking every bit the enigmatic mentor. I sighed, resigning myself to whatever fresh hell he had in store for me.

"Alright, old man," I said, cracking my knuckles. "Let's get this over with."

Ra's led me back toward the waterfall, his steps unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. Which, I guess, he did. Immortality must be nice like that—no rush, no deadlines, just centuries of cryptic wisdom and dramatic pauses. Meanwhile, I was stuck playing catch-up, my muscles still screaming from dragging those damn logs.

The waterfall roared in the background, its mist cooling the air around us. Ra's stopped at the edge of the stream, where the water pooled into a shallow, crystal-clear basin. He turned to me, his expression unreadable.

"Advanced stealth," he began, his voice carrying over the sound of the rushing water, "is not merely about moving unseen. It is about becoming one with your surroundings. Your mind must be as still as the surface of an undisturbed lake, your body as fluid as the current of this water."

I crossed my arms, raising an eyebrow. "So, what? I'm supposed to, like, meditate by the river and hope I turn into a ninja? Because I've got to tell you, I'm not really the 'ohm' type."

Ra's didn't smile, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Meditation is only the beginning. Your mind is restless, Jason. It is clouded by anger, by self doubt, by the noise of your past shadow which tries to sabotage whatever ounce of peace you might achieve. Until you learn to silence it, you will never master true stealth."

Flashes of my encounter with the hallucination—that eerily lifelike version of myself—haunted my thoughts. Sleep had become elusive since then, my nights restless and frayed at the edges.

The way I had killed Khalid's guard— so inhumanly—weighed on me. Two lives, extinguished by my hand. No matter how often I told myself they deserved worse, no matter how I justified it, their deaths lingered in my conscience like a stain I couldn't scrub away.

I snorted. "Yeah, well, maybe my 'restless mind' has something to do with the fact that I died and got thrown into a magic pit that brought me back wrong. Ever think of that?"

He tilted his head, studying me like I was some kind of puzzle he was trying to solve. "The Lazarus Pit did not make you 'wrong,' Jason. It amplified what was already within you. Your anger, your pain—these are not weaknesses. They are tools, if you learn to wield them."

"Tools, huh?" I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Great. So instead of therapy, I get to channel my trauma into becoming a better assassin. Sign me up."

Ra's ignored my jab, gesturing to the stream. "Step into the water."

I blinked at him. "You're kidding, right? It's freezing out here."

"The cold is irrelevant," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Step into the water."

I muttered a string of curses under my breath but did as he said, kicking off my boots and wading into the stream. The water was icy, biting at my skin like a thousand tiny needles. I sucked in a sharp breath, my teeth clenched to keep them from chattering.

"Now," Ra's said, his voice calm and measured, "close your eyes. Focus on the sensation of the water around you. Let it guide your thoughts."

I closed my eyes, though I was pretty sure this was a waste of time. The water was cold, yeah, but it wasn't exactly enlightening. All I could think about was how much I wanted to get out and dry off.

"Your mind is still racing," Ra's observed, his voice cutting through my thoughts. "You are fighting the current instead of letting it flow through you."

"Yeah, well, maybe I don't feel like flowing today," I shot back, opening my eyes to glare at him. "Can we skip to the part where I get to punch something?"

Ra's sighed, a rare show of exasperation. "You are impatient, Jason. Impatience is the enemy of focus."

"And focus is the enemy of fun," I retorted. "Look, I get it. You're trying to teach me some deep, mystical lesson about inner peace or whatever. But I'm not exactly the poster child for Zen. So how about we try something that doesn't involve me turning into a popsicle man.

Ra's shook his head. "You're assuming I'll grow tired of your stubbornness—that I'll give up and switch to training you'd actually enjoy. You're only delaying the inevitable." His voice hardened. "Now shut up, close your eyes, and focus."

Finally, I'd struck a nerve. The old man had seemed immune to my jabs lately, but irritation flickered beneath his calm now.

Best not to push him further. I obeyed, shutting my eyes—yet even in the dark, I could feel the weight of his glare, sharp with frustration. Yeah… time to behave.

- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Talia al Ghul's POV]


The night air of Gotham City was thick with the stench of decay. It clung to the rooftops, seeped into the cracks of crumbling buildings, and lingered in the shadows where the dregs of humanity festered.


The city was a festering wound, a place where hope went to die, and yet, it was also the home of the man Talia al Ghul could not seem to rid from her thoughts.


Bruce Wayne. The Batman. Her beloved.


The League of Shadows' mission here was complete, and her father's orders had been carried out with precision.

The criminal underworld of Gotham would feel the aftershocks of their work for weeks to come, though they would never know it was the hand of the Demon's Head that had struck them. Standing on the edge of a rooftop, overlooking the city, Talia felt a pang of something unfamiliar—nostalgia, perhaps.

Or maybe it was simply the weariness of a woman who had seen too much, done too much, and yet still found herself drawn to the one man who had always eluded her grasp.

The city sprawled before her, a labyrinth of shadows and light. The skyline was jagged, a silhouette of broken dreams and forgotten promises. The faint hum of traffic below was a distant murmur, drowned out by the occasional wail of a siren or the sharp crack of gunfire.

Gotham was a city that never slept, but it did not live either. It existed in a state of perpetual unrest, a battlefield where the lines between hero and villain blurred into obscurity.

She adjusted the hood of her cloak, pulling it tighter around her face. The fabric was dark, blending seamlessly with the night, and the faint glint of her armor beneath was the only hint of her presence.

The League's uniform was a second skin, a reminder of who she was and what she represented. But tonight, she was not here as the heir to the Demon's Head. Tonight, she was here as Talia. Just Talia.

The thought of seeing Bruce again stirred something deep within her. It had been too long since their paths last crossed, and though she would never admit it aloud, she had missed him. Missed the fire in his eyes, the way he moved with the grace of a predator, the way he spoke with a voice that carried the weight of the world.

He was a man of contradictions—a man who fought for justice yet lived in the shadows. A man who wore the mask of a bat to strike fear into the hearts of criminals, yet beneath it all, he was still the boy who had lost his parents to the very darkness he now battled.

She wondered how he was coping. The death of his son, Jason Todd, must have shaken him to his core. Bruce had always been a man who carried his burdens alone, burying his pain beneath the cowl and the mission.

But even Batman was not invincible. Even he had to feel the weight of loss, the sting of failure. She knew this better than anyone. She had seen the cracks in his armor, the moments when the mask slipped and the man beneath was revealed.

If only I could tell him the truth.

If only she could reveal that Jason was alive, that he was well, and that he was under her father's care. But such a revelation would come at a cost.

Ra's al Ghul's plans were not to be trifled with, and his interest in Jason was… troubling. The boy was a weapon, a tool to be shaped and molded, and Talia feared what he might become under her father's influence. But for now, she had to remain silent. To speak would be to betray her father, and that was a line she could not cross. Not yet.

She leaped from the rooftop, her movements fluid and precise. The city rushed past her in a blur of light and shadow as she navigated the rooftops with ease. The wind whipped at her cloak, tugging at the fabric, but she paid it no mind.

Her focus was singular, her destination clear. She knew where to find him. She always did.

It did not take long to spot him. He was perched on the edge of a rooftop, his silhouette unmistakable against the night sky.

The cape billowed behind him, a dark shroud that seemed to merge with the shadows, and the pointed ears of the cowl gave him an almost otherworldly appearance. He was a figure of myth, a legend brought to life, and yet, he was also just a man. A man who had given everything to this city, to his crusade.

She landed silently behind him, her boots barely making a sound against the gravel. He did not turn, but she knew he was aware of her presence. The Batman was never caught off guard. Not by her. Not by anyone.

"Talia," he said, his voice low and gravelly. It was a voice that commanded attention, a voice that carried the weight of authority. But there was something else there too. A hint of… something. Surprise? Relief? She couldn't tell.

"Bruce," she replied, stepping closer. The distance between them felt both vast and infinitesimal. They were two sides of the same coin, bound by a connection that neither could fully understand or escape. "It's been a while."

He turned then, his eyes narrowing beneath the cowl. The white lenses of the mask hid his true expression, but she could feel the intensity of his gaze.

It was a look that pierced through the layers of armor, both physical and emotional, and reached the core of who she was. It was a look that had haunted her for years.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his tone guarded. There was no warmth in his voice, no hint of the man beneath the mask. But she knew it was there. She had seen it before.

"Can I not visit an old friend?" she said, her lips curling into a faint smile. The words were light, but the weight behind them was anything but. They were more than friends—they were allies, enemies, lovers, and adversaries. They were everything and nothing, all at once.

He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he turned back to the city, his gaze sweeping over the skyline. The silence between them was heavy, filled with unspoken words and unresolved tensions.

"The League's presence in Gotham hasn't gone unnoticed," he said after a moment. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. A warning. "If you're here on your father's orders—"


"I'm not here on my father's orders," she interrupted, her tone sharp. The mention of Ra's was a sore subject, a reminder of the divide that separated them. "I'm here because I wanted to see you. Because I… needed to see you."

The admission hung in the air between them, fragile and raw. It was not often that Talia allowed herself to be vulnerable, to show the cracks in her own armor. But with Bruce, it was different. With Bruce, she couldn't help but be honest.

He turned to her again, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched on, and for a moment, she wondered if he would say anything at all. But then, he spoke.

"Why now?" he asked, his voice softer now. There was a hint of something in his tone. Curiosity? Concern? She couldn't tell.

"Because I don't know when I'll see you again," she replied, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging within her. "Because I know what you've lost, and I… I wanted to make sure you were alright."

The words were true, but they were not the whole truth. She couldn't tell him about Jason. She couldn't tell him that his son was alive, that he was out there somewhere, waiting to be found. But she could offer him this—a moment of connection. A moment of understanding.

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. The cape swirled around him like a living thing, and the faint scent of leather and smoke filled the air. He was so close now, close enough to touch, and yet, the distance between them felt insurmountable.

"I'm fine," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. But she knew better. She could see the pain in the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He was not fine. He was far from it.

"You don't have to lie to me, Bruce," she said, her voice gentle. "Not to me."

He looked at her then, really looked at her, and for a moment, the mask slipped. She saw the man beneath the cowl, the man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. The man who had lost so much and yet continued to fight. The man she had loved for as long as she could remember.

"Talia…" he began, but the words caught in his throat. He didn't know what to say, and neither did she. There were no words that could bridge the gap between them, no words that could undo the choices they had made or the paths they had chosen.

And so, they stood there, two figures silhouetted against the night, bound by a connection that neither could fully understand or escape.

The city stretched out before them, a sprawling testament to the darkness they both fought against. And for a moment, just a moment, Talia allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was still hope for them.

But the moment passed, as all moments did, and the weight of reality settled back onto her shoulders. She stepped back, the distance between them growing once more.

"Be careful, Bruce," she said, her voice soft but firm. "The city is not the only thing that can break you."

He nodded, his expression unreadable once more. The mask was back in place, the walls rebuilt. But she knew what lay beneath. She had always known.

With one last look, she turned and leaped from the rooftop, disappearing into the night. The wind rushed past her, carrying with it the faint scent of Gotham's decay. But as she made her way through the city, she couldn't help but feel a sense of… something. Relief? Regret? She didn't know.

Somewhere out there, Batman continued his relentless crusade, fighting to fill the ever-expanding void that consumed him.

She saw it in his every move, in the way he threw himself into the abyss of Gotham's chaos. He blamed himself for the loss of his son, Jason Todd, and that guilt had become his penance, his retribution.

If only she could tell him the truth, if only she could ease his suffering. But the time was not right, and the secrets she carried were not hers to reveal—not yet.

Their son, Damian, was a light in this darkness, a beacon of hope and pride. He was everything she could have dreamed of and more.

With his striking resemblance to Bruce, his sharp intellect, and his prodigious talents, Damian was a testament to the legacy of both his father and the al Ghul bloodline.

He was her joy, her purpose, and her greatest triumph. How she wished she could share this with Bruce, to let him know that a part of him lived on in their son.

Damian was not just her child—he was theirs. He carried Bruce's strength, his determination, and his unyielding sense of justice. But for now, this truth had to remain hidden. The weight of it would only complicate matters, and Bruce was not ready to bear it. Not yet.


She knew her beloved would endure. He was Batman, after all—the man her father had once seen as a worthy successor to the League of Assasins. Bruce's resilience was unmatched, and though he might be lost in the shadows now, she had faith he would find his way.


- - -


Some may claim that so far I've misrepresented Batman, but I believe my take is justified.


That's because we all see him as stoic, unwavering, a man who identifies himself as Batman, with Bruce Wayne as the alias.


But so many forget that beneath the mask, beyond the demons he conceals so perfectly, lies something far more profound: a human being. A father.


My intention is to encapsulate or at least reveal a glimpse of the man who carries the weight of his personal struggles yet still places his city, even the fate of the world, above his own heartaches.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Jason Todd's POV]

The sun hung low in the sky, its golden rays bleeding into the horizon as the day surrendered to the encroaching twilight. The river before me shimmered like molten bronze, its surface rippling with the occasional leap of a fish or the gentle caress of the evening breeze.

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and wildflowers, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of blood and sweat I was now accustomed to. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, the world felt both vast and suffocating—a paradox I couldn't quite reconcile.

I sat cross-legged on the riverbank, my back stiff from hours of forced meditation. Ra's al Ghul, had insisted on it. "Meditation is the foundation of control," he'd said, his voice as smooth as the river's current but with an undercurrent of steel. "Without it, you are but a leaf in the wind, tossed about by your emotions."

I Hated it. Every second of it. My mind doesn't seem to be built for stillness. It felt more like a battlefield, a cacophony of anger, regret, and the ever-present itch for carnage.

But here I was, playing the obedient student, because if there was one thing I hated more than meditation, it was feeling like I had no control over myself.

Ra's had set up camp a few yards away—a modest tent that looked more like a relic from a bygone era than something fit for a man of his stature. I doubted he'd be sharing it. The old man had a flair for the dramatic, and his idea of "roughing it" probably involved silk sheets and a butler.

As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the river, Ra's called out to me. "Jason, join me."

I stood, brushing the dirt from my pants, and made my way over. He stood at the water's edge, his silhouette framed by the dying light. In his hands, he held a dagger, its blade glinting ominously. A length of rope was tied to its handle, the other end coiled neatly in his palm.

"Let us catch ourselves some dinner before your final lesson for the day," he said, his voice calm but commanding. He tossed a handful of bait into the water, and almost immediately, the surface erupted with activity as fish swarmed the spot, their silvery bodies darting to and fro.

I raised an eyebrow. "Is it just me, or did you skip the part about eating dinner before we call it a night? Because I'm starving."

He didn't respond. Instead, he twirled the rope with practiced ease, the dagger spinning in a deadly arc. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled it into the water. The blade struck true, impaling a fish mid-swim. He yanked it back, the fish flopping helplessly as he placed it on a bed of leaves behind him.

He repeated the process, catching another fish with the same effortless precision. Then, without a word, he handed the rope and dagger to me.

"Your turn," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I took the makeshift fishing tool, feeling the weight of the dagger in my hand. "Okay…" I muttered, more to myself than to him. I mimicked his movements, twirling the rope until the dagger gained momentum.



My eyes locked onto a fish—a plump one, lazily drifting near the surface. It looked like it would taste amazing roasted over a fire, especially after the grueling day I'd had.

I halted the rotation and hurled the dagger, aiming for the fish's body. The blade hit the water with a splash, missing its mark entirely. The fish darted away, disappearing into the murky depths.

"Shit!" I growled, frustration bubbling up. I tried again, this time aiming for a smaller fish. Same result. The damn thing was faster than it looked.

The geezer watched silently, his expression unreadable. "There are a few more around," he said finally. "You only need to catch one."

"Just one?" I shot him an incredulous look. "Three fish won't be enough for both of us. I'm starving. Four would be ideal."

He folded his arms, his gaze steady. "We will be incorporating fasting into our training for the next few days."

"Fasting?" I echoed, my voice rising. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Fasting is a key practice," he explained, his tone infuriatingly calm. "It will help you attune to your body and mind during meditation. Now, focus. Catch a fish before we lose the light."

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to push down the irritation. I locked onto another fish, this one smaller but quicker. Ra's voice cut through my thoughts. "Anticipate its movement. Strike where it will be, not where it swims."

It was simple advice, but it clicked. I spun the rope again, the dagger whirling in a tight circle. This time, I aimed for the fish's head, calculating its trajectory. With a grunt, I let the dagger fly.

It struck true, the blade embedding itself in the fish's body. I yanked it back, a triumphant grin spreading across my face. "Yes!"

"Good," Ra's said, his approval as understated as ever. He nodded slightly, the closest I'd get to a pat on the back.

By the time I pulled the fish ashore, the sun had fully set, leaving the world bathed in the soft glow of the moon. The old man lit a campfire, the flames casting flickering shadows across his face as he prepared the fish. He skewered them on sticks and set them over the fire, the smell of the roast making my stomach growl.

When the fish were done, he handed me two, keeping only one for himself. "Here," he said. "You earned it."

I hesitated, eyeing the second fish. "Are you sure?"

"You will need your strength for tomorrow's training," he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I took the fishes, the warmth of the fire seeping into my bones as I ate. The silence between us was heavy but not uncomfortable. The old man had a way of making even the simplest moments feel like a test.

As he stood to retire to his tent, he paused, turning to me. "Yes? Ask your questions. I will answer two, so choose wisely."

I blinked, caught off guard. Damn, is he psychic too?

The first question came easily. "How long is this training going to take?"

"Until you achieve a level of self-mastery that allows you to conceal your presence from even the most alert individuals," he said, his voice as steady as the river's flow. "This training should help you gain control over your emotions and impulses."

I nodded, the answer both satisfying and daunting. The second question was more of a jab. "Why do you get a tent, and I'm stuck out here with a sleeping bag?"

He didn't miss a beat. "Because I say so."

"That's not an answer," I called after him as he disappeared into his tent.

He didn't respond.

I added more wood to the fire, the flames crackling as I settled into my sleeping bag. The exhaustion of the day weighed heavily on me, and despite the hard ground and the chill in the air, sleep came quickly.

As I drifted off, the last thing I saw was the fire's glow, a small beacon in the vast, dark wilderness. And for the first time in a while, I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this would work.



- - -

The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of pale pink and gold. The forest was alive with the sounds of waking creatures—birds chirping, leaves rustling, and the distant gurgle of the river. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew and pine. Jason Todd stirred in his sleeping bag, the chill of the morning seeping into his bones.

He groaned, pulling the thin fabric tighter around himself. He didn't have a nightmare last night and was having the best sleep he has had since the past week, but the peace was short-lived.

"Jason," Ra's al Ghul's voice cut through the stillness, sharp and commanding. "Rise. The day does not wait for those who linger in comfort."

Jason cracked an eye open, squinting at the silhouette of Ra's standing over him. The man was already dressed, his robes immaculate despite the wilderness setting.

Jason muttered a curse under his breath but forced himself to sit up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "You know, most people start the day with coffee, not a wake-up call from the Demon's Head."

Ra's ignored the quip, his expression as unreadable as ever. "Today, we begin your training in earnest. Follow me."

Jason dragged himself to his feet, shivering as the cold morning air bit through his clothes. He grabbed his jacket and followed Ra's, who moved with the grace of a predator through the dense forest.

The ground was soft beneath their feet, covered in a thick layer of moss and fallen leaves. The trees towered above them, their branches intertwining to form a canopy that filtered the sunlight into dappled patterns on the forest floor.

After a short hike, they reached a clearing where a waterfall cascaded down a rocky cliff, its waters crashing into a crystal-clear pool below. The sound was deafening, a constant roar that drowned out all other noise. Mist rose from the pool, catching the sunlight and creating a shimmering veil around the waterfall. It was a scene of raw, untamed beauty, but Jason had a feeling he wasn't here to admire the view.

Ra's turned to him, his gaze piercing. "You will sit beneath the waterfall. The cold and the pressure will test your endurance, but more importantly, they will force you to focus inward. You must let go of the outside world and confront the darkness within."

Jason raised an eyebrow. "You want me to sit under that? In this weather? Are you trying to kill me?"

Ra's didn't flinch. "If I wanted you dead, Jason, you would be. This is not about comfort. It is about control. The chaos in your mind is your greatest enemy. To master it, you must first face it."

Jason hesitated, staring at the waterfall. The idea of sitting under that freezing torrent was about as appealing as a root canal, but he knew better than to argue. With a resigned sigh, he stripped off his jacket and shirt, leaving him in just his pants. The cold air bit at his skin, raising goosebumps as he stepped into the shallow stream. The water was icy, sending a shock through his system as he waded deeper.

He reached the base of the waterfall, the force of the falling water pounding against his shoulders as he tried to find a stable position. The rocks beneath his feet were slippery, and the pressure of the water threatened to knock him off balance.

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to sit cross-legged beneath the cascade. The cold was unbearable, and the pressure felt like a thousand tiny needles stabbing into his skin.

"Close your eyes," Ra's instructed, his voice carrying over the roar of the waterfall. "Focus on the darkness you see within. Let go of the outside world. Listen only to the pulse of your heartbeat."

Jason clenched his jaw, trying to block out the discomfort. He shut his eyes, but all he could see was a swirling mass of anger, and pain.

The blurred memories of his past, familiar but unidentifiable, voices of a deranged clown, his death, his resurrection, flooded his mind, threatening to overwhelm him as he was almost sent into shock.

He struggled to push them aside, to focus on the pulse of his heartbeat, but it was like trying to hold back a tidal wave with his bare hands.

"I can't—" he started to say, but Ra's cut him off.

"You can. And you will. This is not about physical strength, Jason. It is about mental fortitude. The chaos in your mind is a reflection of your lack of control. Confront it. Master it."

Jason took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. He focused on the rhythmic pounding of his heart, using it as an anchor to ground himself. Slowly, the chaos in his mind began to recede, replaced by a sense of calm.

The cold and the pressure of the water faded into the background, becoming distant sensations rather than overwhelming forces.

As he sat there, the faint flashes of memories blurred even further, slipping away like sand through his fingers.

- - -

The training continued for three days, each one more grueling than the last. Ra's pushed Jason to his limits, forcing him to confront his weaknesses and overcome them.



They hunted for food, tracking wild animals through the dense forest and catching fish from the river. Ra's taught Jason how to move silently, to blend into his surroundings, and to strike with precision. But the most challenging part of the training was the meditation beneath the waterfall.

Each morning, Jason would sit beneath the cascade, the cold and pressure testing his endurance. At first, he struggled, his mind a whirlwind of chaos and emotion. But with each passing day, he grew stronger, more focused.

Due to this training Ra's had put him unto, the resurfacing memories of his past were chugged down to the deepest corners of his mind, replaced by a sense of calm and control. By the third day, he could sit beneath the waterfall for hours, his mind clear and his body still.

On the final day, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Ra's called an end to the training. "You have made progress," he said, his tone as neutral as ever. "But this is only the beginning. True mastery takes years, even decades. Are you prepared to continue?"

Jason nodded, his expression determined. "I'm ready." He replied, feeling like some weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

Ra's studied him for a moment, then turned and began walking back toward the camp. "Then let us return to the base. There is much work to be done."

As they made their way through the forest, Jason couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. The anger and pain that had once consumed him were still there, but they felt distant, like echoes of a past life.

He didn't realize it, but the training had done more than just teach him control—it had reshaped him, solidifying his current personality and burying the memories of his old self deep within his subconscious.

When they finally emerged from the forest and returned to the base of the League of Assassins, Jason felt a sense of accomplishment.

He had faced his demons and come out stronger. But as he looked at Ra's, he couldn't help but wonder what the future held. The path to self-mastery was long and arduous, but for the first time in a long time, Jason felt like he was on the right track.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The base of the League of Assassins was a fortress carved into the side of a mountain, it's dark stone walls blending seamlessly with the jagged cliffs that surrounded it.

Inside, the halls were lit by flickering torches, casting long shadows that danced across the ancient tapestries and weapons adorning the walls.

The air was thick with the scent of incense and the faint metallic tang of steel. It was a place of discipline, of order, and of secrets—a stark contrast to the untamed wilderness where Jason had spent the past three days.

Ra's al Ghul led Jason through the labyrinthine corridors, their footsteps echoing in the silence.

They passed training rooms filled with assassins honing their skills, their movements precise and deadly. Jason couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the level of skill on display, but he also felt a growing determination. He would master his combat training, no matter what it took.

They reached a secluded chamber deep within the base, its walls lined with shelves filled with ancient scrolls and texts. In the center of the room was a large stone table, its surface covered in maps and diagrams. Ra's gestured for Jason to sit, then took his place at the head of the table.

"You have made progress in taming your emotions and mastering your physical body," Ra's began, his voice calm but commanding. "But true stealth is more than just hiding in the shadows or moving silently. It is about erasing your presence entirely—becoming one with your surroundings, so that even the most alert individuals cannot sense you."

Jason leaned forward, his interest piqued. "How do I do that?"

Ra's smiled faintly, a rare expression that hinted at approval. "It begins with understanding the concept of muga—the state of no-self.

When you achieve muga, you become invisible in the dark not just to the eyes, but to all senses. You are no longer yourself alone. You are the air, the shadows, the silence."

Jason frowned, trying to wrap his head around the concept. "Sounds like a bunch of philosophical mumbo jumbo."

Ra's chuckled softly. "Perhaps. But philosophy and practicality are not mutually exclusive. To achieve muga, you must first master the art of zanshin—the state of relaxed awareness.

You must be aware of everything around you, yet remain completely relaxed. Only then can you blend into your environment so seamlessly that you become undetectable."

He stood and motioned for Jason to follow. They left the chamber and made their way to a large training hall, its floor covered in soft mats. Ra's handed Jason a blindfold and a pair of weighted gloves. "Put these on. You will learn to rely on your other senses."

Jason obeyed, slipping the blindfold over his eyes and pulling on the gloves. The world went dark, and the added weight made his movements feel sluggish.

Ra's voice came from somewhere in front of him, calm and steady. "Close your eyes and focus on your breathing. Feel the air moving in and out of your lungs. Listen to the sounds around you—the rustle of fabric, the creak of the floorboards, the distant hum of the torches."

Jason did as he was told, forcing himself to relax. He focused on his breathing, letting it slow and deepen. The sounds of the training hall became sharper, more distinct. He could hear the faint scrape of Ra's boots on the mats, the subtle shift of his robes as he moved.

"Now," Ra's said, his voice barely above a whisper, "try to sense my presence. Do not rely on your eyes. Use your other senses."

Jason concentrated, his mind reaching out like a radar. He could feel Ra's presence, a faint pressure in the air, but it was elusive, shifting and changing like a shadow. He took a step forward, his movements slow and deliberate. The weighted gloves made his arms feel heavy, but he forced himself to ignore the discomfort.

Ra's moved silently, his footsteps barely making a sound. Jason strained to follow him, his senses stretched to their limits. He could feel the air currents shifting as Ra's moved, the faintest whisper of fabric brushing against skin. He turned, following the sensation, but Ra's was always one step ahead.

"You are trying too hard," Ra's said, his voice coming from behind him. "Relax. Let go of your logical thoughts. Become the air."

Jason took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. He let go of the tension in his muscles, his body becoming loose and fluid.

He focused on the sensations around him, letting them flow through him like water. Slowly, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the faint pressure of Ra's presence.

He moved, his steps light and silent. The weighted gloves no longer felt like a burden; they were an extension of his body. He could feel Ra's presence more clearly now, a subtle shift in the air. He turned, his movements smooth and effortless, and reached out.

His hand brushed against Ra's shoulder, and he heard a faint chuckle. "Better," Ra's said. "But you still have much to learn."


By the end of the week, Jason's progress was undeniable. He had grown quieter, more attuned to the subtle nature of his surroundings. Each day is more intense than the last. Ra's pushed Jason to his limits, forcing him to refine his senses and master the art of zanshin.

Contrary to Muga which was the state of no mind, Zashine was focused more on a state of awareness.


They practiced in the training hall, in the forest, and even in the bustling streets of a nearby village. Jason learned to blend into his surroundings, to move without a sound, and to erase his presence entirely. Just like an expert assassin.


- - -

[Three months later]

Just another day at the League's base, everyone and everything went on with their daily routines.

This morning the training ground had Damian engaged in hand to hand combat, he had a lot to cover up in that field. Being a kid and all had it's disadvantages if he's without a weapon, despite how nimble he was with that stature of he's.

He needed to make up for his size and lack of physical power. So, his focus was more on precision and technique.

With how he was dominating his grown up opponent, it was easy to see the time and effort he had put into his training. That much was expected of him.

As the heir to the League, his shoulders are burdened by the pressure of his birthright. This has made him so very determined to be the best at everything worth acknowledging by his grandfather, the Demon's Head.

Nah—not determined, more like obsessed with being the best. That was a lot of pressure for a child to bear. He knows nothing of a normal childhood, only training and combat.

With all the expectations and responsibilities his heritage has placed on him, being the heir to the League did have its advantages.

It gives him access to premium training, his dedication, resilience, fear of disappointing his mother and grandfather, were the propelling forces behind this prodigy's diligent and energetic attitude towards training exercises.

He evaded a strike from his opponent, and countered by invading his personal space as he landed a direct blow to his opponent's solar plexus, causing him to drop to his knees and down on his face, unconscious.

Maintaining a stern expression and without the slightest hint of satisfaction from his victory like it was some mundane chore, he took his bow and proceed to descend the arena.

"You know you are supposed to look pleased from your victory, but its alright if you aren't aware." Jason's voice reached him, practically dripping with sarcasm as they crossed path while he ascended the arena.

Damian halted, making a circuitous turn as he averted his gaze at Jason who was already at the edge of the arena. "Please, a victory such as that isn't worth acknowledging. It is only normal I win."

He replied with a stern look in his eyes and with no tonal inflection in his voice, then proceeded to join the others to watch from the sidelines.

Both participants took their stance as they awaited the command to bash the other's face in.

"Begin!"

Ra's instructed as they both lunged themselves at each other. Jason currently battled a skilled member of the League, one that would have easily taken him down a couple months ago.

But that doesn't seem to the case at this point. He was holding his ground against his opponent, matching up to skill, only being pushed back due to the years of experience his opponent had under his belt.

"He shows significant levels of improvement." Taking stance right next to her father, Talia joined him to watch the ongoing sparring session.

"Yes he does, daughter." He replied with the slight expression of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"He shows improvement in skill, and adaptability." Talia observed, watching as Jason seem to have gotten the rhythm of his opponent and now made the fight seem to be on even grounds.

"Within the past couple of months, I've trained the boy on basic skills needed to be a good assassin. His progress as we move forward, depends on him." Ra's earned himself a side glance from his daughter who looked at him with an hint of disbelief.

"You doubt me, daughter?" He asked, averting his gaze her way.

"In no way do I bare doubtful thoughts towards you, father. But your previous statement sounded unlike youself."
With a brow cocked up, Ra's stared at her intensely, almost in scrutiny. "What do you mean?"
"I know you would do anything and everything within your power to push Jason towards his innate potential, and not do a little and leave the rest of his progression in his hands."
"Hmmm." Stroking his chin as he thought on it, Ra's could not help the brief laughter that escaped his lips.

"You are right indeed, daughter."
Talia knew her father better than anyone, she knew he wouldn't sit back and leave Jason's progress in his own hands, serving only as a guide and instructor along the way.
No, he wouldn't. His plans to groom the boy into the perfect assassin and possibly a contender to his succession.

"So far he has displayed unwavering loyalty to our cause. But I wonder if he is committed enough to the order that he would go against the subconscious programming the detective did to his morals during his time with him."
"Wait…are you saying even though he is without memories, the morals Bruce had engraved into him is still at play subconsciously?" Talia questioned, confusion etched in her voice.

"It would seem like so." Her father replied. "Though he understands there are times when killing is a necessity, he still shows signs of resistance before taking a life, then self scrutinize after."

"Those are traits unbecoming of a proper assassin." She replied, feeling a sense of relief that Jason wasn't a full blown murder just yet. Even upon heavy influence from the Lazarus Pit to take lives so as to feed the hunger, the overwhelming thirst to take lives, he still had his humanity.

But that relief wasn't long lived as her father seem to have a plan regarding that minor issue. A way to mold and reshape the boy into the ideal assassin.

"That issue would be dealt with, in time." He replied, while both watched Jason takedown his opponent and forced him into submission.

To Ra's, having him shed his humanity would just result in a soulless soldier who lives for the sake of his mission and in turn would lack the flexibility and will power to do whatever it took to survive.

A smirk appeared across Ra's al Ghul's lips as he watched Jason claim his victory, envisioning the path he was leading him to.

A path where logical initiatives overwrite emotional actions. An individual with talents such as Jason's, needed to be groomed and fine tuned into the perfect assassin.

Emotions were useless to an assassin. A fledged soldier of the League had to be without emotions.

"He was reported to have acted out of the mission objectives given to him, and rescued some kids in Khalid's captivity." He spoke in a calculated cold tone.


"You speak like he has committed a crime, he is human after all." Talia replied, turning to her father.

"He did complete the mission's objective before acting off course." Ra's said as he turned to take his leave. "He shows sympathy in his eyes, I would have to erase that and mold him into the perfect soldier."

With that, he took his leave, earning a side gaze from Talia as she feared her father's plans for the young lad.

Having him kill off his emotions in the name of creating the perfect soldier would lead to him becoming a fearsome and ruthlessly efficient assassin, even among the top members of the league.


- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the base was bathed in the soft glow of torchlight, Ra's summoned Jason to his private quarters.

The room was sparsely furnished, with a large wooden desk, a few chairs, and a map of the world pinned to the wall. Ra stood by the desk, having a neutral expression.

"You have made significant progress," Ra's said, his voice calm but commanding. "But true mastery can only be achieved through practical field application. A mission has come up that will test your skills."

Jason's eyes narrowed. "What kind of mission?"

Ra's gestured to the map, his finger tracing a line to a small village nestled in the mountains. "There is a target here—a man who has betrayed the League.

He is hiding in the village, protected by a group of mercenaries. Your task is to infiltrate the village, eliminate the target, and retrieve a valuable artifact he has stolen. You must do this without being seen or noticed until you have retrieved it and assassinated the target."

Jason studied the map, his mind already working through the details. "When do I leave?"

"At dawn," Ra's replied. "This will be your final test. If you succeed, you will have proven yourself worthy of the League's teachings."

Jason nodded, a determined glint in his eyes. "I won't fail."

- - -


The village was a ghostly settlement swallowed by towering pines, their skeletal branches clawing at the overcast sky. Wooden houses, their beams blackened by time, stood like sentinels beneath thick blankets of moss.

Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, carrying the scent of burning oak and spiced meat. Laughter echoed through the narrow streets, but Jason didn't let the illusion of peace fool him.

'Too quiet for a mercenary base.'

He moved like a wraith, his boots barely disturbing the damp earth. The League's training had honed his instincts to a razor's edge—every rustle of leaves, every shift in the wind, spoke to him. His fingers brushed the hilt of a dagger strapped to his thigh, the cold metal a silent promise.

'Guards. Two at the gate, four patrolling the perimeter. Too many for a simple village.'


His target's hideout loomed ahead—a fortified manor encircled by a high stone wall, its surface slick with ivy. Mercenaries prowled the grounds, their rifles slung over their shoulders, eyes sharp.

Jason smirked beneath his mask. Amateurs.


He waited, counting the seconds between patrol rotations. Then—flick—a pebble arced through the air, landing in the underbrush with a soft crunch.

The nearest guard spun. "You hear that?"

Jason was already moving, scaling the wall with practiced ease. His muscles coiled as he dropped into the courtyard, rolling behind a rain barrel. The scent of damp wood and gun oil filled his nostrils.

No alarms. Good.

The manor's back door was reinforced steel, but the lock was a joke. Three picks, a twist, and the mechanism surrendered with a soft click. Inside, the air was thick with incense—sandalwood and something bitter. Camouflage. They're hiding something.

He ghosted through dim corridors, his senses hyper-alert. The study door was ajar, golden candlelight spilling onto the hardwood floor.

There.

A man sat at an oak desk, his back turned, a familiar ornate box resting before him. The build matched his target's—broad shoulders, military-straight posture. Jason's grip tightened on his knife.

End this quick.

In three silent strides, he was behind him. "Don't move," Jason murmured, voice low and lethal. "This doesn't have to get messy."

The man tensed—then moved. A dagger flashed in the candlelight, slicing toward Jason's throat.

'Shit.'

Instinct took over. Jason twisted, catching the man's wrist and driving a brutal elbow into his windpipe. The mercenary gagged, crumpling like a puppet with cut strings.

Jason yanked down the scarf masking the man's face.

It wasn't the League's target, Slade Wilson.

A muscle in his jaw twitched as he thought to himself. 'Slade should be here somewhere.'

He did not know why the name or picture of his target was so familiar to him, but he ignored that and was so focused on executing his mission with acute efficiency.

Footsteps echoed in the hall—heavy, purposeful.

Jason acted fast. He dragged the unconscious merc behind the desk, then slid into the vacated chair, pulling the scarf over his own face. The door creaked open.

A guard stepped in, his rifle slung lazily over one shoulder. "Didn't realize you were still here, sir. Just checking in."

Jason kept his voice smooth, bored. "I'm reviewing intel." He slowly walked towards the door and closed it behind him.

The guard hesitated. "You… weren't with the main force?"

Jason's pulse spiked, but his tone remained ice. "I had separate orders." Curious as to where the main force may have gone to as it was only reasonable that their leader might be with them, he asked.

"Where'd the main force head off this morning?" Jason kept his voice casual, leaning against the doorframe like he belonged there. "Just finished my assignment, but by the time I got back to file my report, the place was half-empty."

The guard smirked, puffing out his chest. "Oh, you missed the fun. Boss took the big guns out for a hunt."

Jason raised an eyebrow, feigning mild interest. "That so? What's the target?"

"The League of Assassins' stronghold," the guard said, pride dripping from his words.

"Slade's gonna carve up Ra's al Ghul himself and bring back his head as a trophy. Let's see the 'Demon's Head' survive that." He barked a laugh, sharp with mockery.

Jason's jaw clenched behind the mask, teeth grinding against the sting of the insult. It burned—not just the words, but the casual arrogance behind them.

They'd slaughtered an entire unit like it was nothing. He forced a chuckle anyway, rough and approving, the sound scraping his throat like gravel.

"Damn. Wish I'd been on that op." A shake of his head, the picture of a soldier denied glory. "Nothing left but cleanup now, huh?"

The guard shrugged, oblivious. "Pretty much." Then, with a camaraderie that made Jason's skin crawl, the man clapped him on the shoulder—

—and froze.

Jason saw it the second the guard's gaze flicked downward, toward the unconscious man's boot protruding from behind the desk. A half-breath of hesitation. A widening of pupils.

Too late.

Jason was already moving.

With much practiced efficiency, his hand snapped up in a knife-edge strike, driving into the guard's exposed throat with surgical precision.

The man's choked gasp died as his windpipe collapsed; he folded like a marionette with its strings cut, knees hitting the floor before his body toppled sideways.

No time to dwell. No time to check pulses.

'They're inside the League.'

The realization coiled like ice in his gut. He snatched the artifact from the desk—its weight suddenly too light for the havoc it carried—and was at the door in three strides.

Shadows swallowed him as he slipped into the corridor, his breaths measured, his footfalls silent. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but discipline kept his movements efficient, invisible.

He retraced his steps through the hideout's labyrinthine halls, a ghost in enemy territory.

A guard turned the corner ahead; Jason melted into an alcove, pressing flat against the wall until the man passed, whistling. Another heartbeat, and he was moving again, slipping out a side entrance into the knife-cold air of the forest.

Dawn had bled into midday by the time he cleared the tree line, the sun high and pitiless.

The artifact was secure in his pack, but his fingers twitched toward the comm unit at his belt. Static hissed back—jammed, or the League's channels were chaos. Either way, the message was clear.

They're under attack. And Ra's doesn't know.

He broke into a sprint.


- - -


[The League of Assassins stronghold]


Training had begun, and Jason was nowhere to be found. When that happened, he was usually with Ra's or receiving secluded instruction from him. But this morning, Talia spotted her father on the balcony above, surveying the training grounds as she led the assassins through their drills.

Damian had also noticed the older boy's absence. Under his mother's orders, he had gone to drag Jason down to the courtyard, eager to annoy the shit out of him before training even started. To his irritation, the room was empty. Jason wasn't in his usual spot atop the mountains either, where he often went to clear his head.

As another instructor took over the weapon drills, Talia seized the moment to approach her father. His undisturbed demeanor suggested he knew exactly where Jason was—and that bothered her.

She climbed the stairs, her steps measured, and joined him at the balcony's edge.

"Father," she greeted, her voice steady.

"Daughter," he replied, his gaze still fixed on the courtyard below. "As always, your training sessions are commendable. You will make a fine leader for the League, guiding my grandson when the time comes for him to claim his inheritance."

"Thank you, Father."

The praise warmed her, as it always did. She had spent her life striving to meet his expectations, honing herself into the perfect weapon—not as the heir he might have wanted, but as the assassin he needed.

Yet something gnawed at her.

"Jason wasn't present for training this morning," she remarked, keeping her tone neutral. "He didn't report in, nor did he give notice. That isn't like him."

Ra's finally glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "You're concerned for the boy."

It wasn't a question.

"There's no need for worry. I sent him on an errand—a challenge to help provide him with insight on the strength he must still attain."

Talia's fingers twitched, the only outward sign of her unease. Her father's missions were brutal by design, but this secrecy was unusual.

"What mission required such discretion that he couldn't inform me?"

"I ordered him to tell no one. He left before dawn." Ra's paused, weighing his next words. "A containment box was stolen from my gallery. It appeared to be a mere artifact, but it held a tracker—one that was likely discovered and destroyed by now. Only one man could have taken it without detection."

Talia's stomach tightened. "Who?"

"Slade Wilson."

Her breath caught. "You sent Jason after Deathstroke?" Disbelief sharpened her voice. "He's outmatched in every way—experience, skill, combat instinct."

Ra's remained impassive. "It will serve as a lesson. Either he rises to the occasion, or he perishes. Survival alone will force growth."

"This isn't training, Father. It's a death sentence."

"He won't die so easily."

"How can you be certain?"

"Intuition." Ra's turned back to the courtyard, his voice low. "He has the will to survive. If he returns, he will have earned his place. If not… then he was never fit for the role I envisioned."

Talia bit back her protest. There was more to this. "What was in the artifact?"

Ra's exhaled, as if amused by her focus. "The question isn't what it contained, but what was engrav—"

"Mother!" Damian's voice cut through the air as he strode toward them. "He's gone. No one has seen Jason all morning."

Talia forced calm into her tone. "Your grandfather sent him on a mission."

Damian's jaw tightened. The implication was clear—Jason was being groomed in ways he wasn't. A flicker of resentment burned in his eyes.

Ra's noticed. He extended a hand, drawing Damian closer. "You need not worry. None of this diminishes your birthright." He gestured to the assassins below, moving in flawless unison. "This is your legacy, Damian. The League will be yours."

Pride swelled in the boy's chest, but before he could respond, Ra's stiffened. His sharp eyes caught the glint of a rifle muzzle from a nearby doorway.

"Get down!"

He shoved Damian aside as Talia dropped. A gunshot rang out—a near miss, but the bullet grazed Ra's shoulder.

Blood seeped into his robes.

"We've been breached!" he snarled.

Talia's gaze snapped toward the shifting shadows. Dark figures poured into the courtyard like ink spilling across parchment, their movements precise, predatory. The glint of firearms in their grip caught the pale morning light, cold, impersonal, lethal.

"Get him out of here," Ra's ordered, unsheathing his sword, his wound ignored.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Chaos erupted in the heart of the League's stronghold.

Ra's al Ghul stood unwavering despite the blood seeping through the fabric of his robes, staining the dark green silk a deeper crimson.

The bullet wound in his arm pulsed with each heartbeat, yet his posture remained rigid, his very image of indomitable will.

Before him, black-clad intruders poured into the courtyard like a tide of shadows, their assault rifles gleaming dully in the pale morning light as they fanned out with military precision.

Every muzzle was trained on the Demon's Head, his daughter, and his grandson, three generations of al Ghul legacy standing against the storm.

"Take the boy." The command left no room for debate, Ra's voice cutting through the cacophony like a blade through silk.

Talia moved before the echo faded.

Her fingers closed around Damian's wrist with the certainty of a falcon's talons, yanking him behind her.

The assassins flooding through the arched gateways moved with a synchronization that made her stomach clench, these weren't mere mercenaries.

Their footfalls fell in perfect rhythm, their attacks coordinated with lethal efficiency. These were trained killers.

"Stay close," she ordered Damian, her voice sharp as the steel in her hand.

"I don't need protection!" Damian spat, his young face contorted in a mix of fury and indignation, his small hands already gripping his own dagger.

But Talia's attention was already elsewhere - mapping escape routes, calculating threats, her mind working with the cold precision that had kept her alive through countless coups and betrayals.

The second gunshot shattered the moment.

Talia's body moved before her mind fully registered the threat. She twisted, using her momentum to slam Damian against a weathered stone pillar just as the bullet struck where his head had been, sending chips of ancient rock spraying through the air.

The acrid scent of gunpowder mixed with the metallic tang of blood from the courtyard.

"They're not just here to raid," Talia realized aloud, her voice barely above a whisper yet carrying terrible certainty. This was an extermination. A purge.

Damian's emerald eyes burned with defiance, his small chest heaving, but before he could voice another protest, a shadow detached itself from the corridor ahead.

Talia's dagger met the attacker's blade in a shower of sparks, the ringing clash echoing off the courtyard's walls.

Without breaking rhythm, she drove her knee upward, feeling ribs give way beneath the impact. The assassin stumbled back, choking on blood.

"Move!" The command left her lips like the crack of a whip, her palm pressing firmly between Damian's shoulder blades to propel him forward.

Ra's' sword moved like liquid silver, each swing a masterpiece of violence. The blade sang as it parted flesh and bone, his movements so precise they seemed choreographed.

An attacker fell, throat opened. Another collapsed, clutching at the ruin of his abdomen. Yet for all his lethal grace, the numbers were against him.

Then– destruction.

The traditional fusuma doors that had stood for generations, elegant wooden frames papered with delicate scenes of mountain landscapes–exploded inward in a hail of splinters.

The sound was deafening; centuries of craftsmanship reduced to flying shrapnel in an instant. Through the ruined doorway poured more black-masked figures, their weapons glinting like a field of deadly stars in the morning light.

"Get him out of here!" Ra's voice carried over the din, the order absolute.

This time, Damian didn't resist. Talia felt the subtle shift in his posture the moment his training overrode his pride.

She wrapped her arms around him, pulling his small form tight against her chest, and leapt from the balcony without hesitation.

Wind rushed past Talia's ears as they fell. The extended rooftop rushed up to meet them, its clay tiles baking in the morning sun. Impact came with a thunderous crack as their combined weight shattered the ancient terracotta.

They skidded downward in a cascade of broken fragments, Talia's body twisting mid-fall to take the brunt of the impact, her arms forming a protective cage around Damian.

For one breathless moment, the world was dust and pain and the sharp scent of broken clay.

Then training took over. Talia rolled them to their feet in one smooth motion, her eyes already scanning for the next threat even as she assessed Damian for injuries.

Ra's al Ghul had already begun his
bloody work on the balcony above.

The Demon's Head stood silhouetted against the pale sky, his sword raised high like a standard of defiance.

Every gun on the spot turned toward him as one, forming a perfect semicircle of death. The simultaneous gunfire was deafening, a wall of lead and fire rushing toward its target.

Ra's moved like a specter.

His blade became a silver blur, deflecting bullets with impossible precision. Sparks flew as steel met lead, the ricochets whining through the air like angry hornets. Step by calculated step, he closed the distance, his expression one of terrifying calm.

Then he struck.

The first attacker died with Ra's sword buried to the hilt in his chest, the blade punching through armor as if it were parchment.

As the others continued firing, Ra's danced between the bullets, his footwork a deadly poetry. Each slash sent arcs of crimson through the air; each parry rang like a death knell.

One by one, they fell.

The last surviving attacker backpedaled desperately, his boots slipping in his comrades' blood. The whites of his eyes showed stark against his black mask as he emptied his clip in a panicked spray.

Ra's sidestepped the barrage with contemptuous ease. Then he leapt - a perfect, soaring arc that carried him over the final distance.

The attacker had just enough time to scream before the sword found its mark, punching through his open mouth and out the back of his skull in a grisly fountain of gore.

Silence fell.

Then–the unmistakable crack of a high-powered rifle from the shadows of the inner corridor. The bullet passed so close to Ra's face that it stirred the hairs of his beard. His head snapped toward the darkness, his eyes burning with primal fury.

"Who would dare?" The words dripped with venom, with the outrage of a king defied in his own hall. This wasn't battle - this was cowardice.

Without another word, he charged into the darkness, his sword hungry for one more kill.


- - -


The stronghold burned.

Flames clawed at the ancient stone walls, their orange tongues licking the darkened sky as smoke coiled thick and suffocating.

The League's sanctum, once a fortress of shadow and discipline, had become a slaughterhouse. The air trembled with the roar of gunfire, the shriek of missiles, and the dying cries of assassins cut down before they could strike.

Talia moved like a wraith through the carnage, her son Damian pressed close behind her. The courtyard was a nightmare of flickering firelight and blood-slicked stone.

Bullets chewed through the air, stitching death into the ranks of her warriors. Above, the mechanical beasts of war—four AH-64 Apache helicopters—hovered like vultures, their miniguns spitting leaden fury.

Then came the thunder.

Missiles streaked from the choppers, slamming into the open field. Dirt and bodies erupted in geysers of flame. A direct hit vaporized three assassins mid-charge, their swords flashing uselessly before they were reduced to crimson mist.

Talia seized Damian's arm and yanked him behind a crumbling section of wall just as shrapnel whined past, embedding itself in the stone where his head had been.

"Stay down," she hissed.

Twice now, in the span of ten brutal
minutes, death had reached for him-
and twice, Talia had ripped him from
its grasp.

Damian exhaled sharply, his small
frame pressed against the scorched
stone wall. His fingers curled into
fists, nails biting into his palms.

His eyes—green and sharp as dagger points—flickered with something between fury and fear. But he obeyed.

Across the courtyard, the League's warriors fought with the desperation of cornered beasts. Some fell, their bodies jerking under hails of gunfire.

Others, faster, deadlier, twisted through the bullets like serpents, closing the distance to bury blades in mercenary throats. But for every soldier that fell, another seemed to take his place.

Then, the reinforcements arrived.

Five CH-53E Super Stallion helicopters descended, their rotors whipping the smoke into frenzied spirals.

Ropes uncoiled like striking vipers, and mercenaries rappelled down, boots hitting the ground in synchronized thuds. M16s and M13s glinted in the firelight as they fanned out, advancing in disciplined formation.

Talia's jaw tightened. This was a massacre, not a battle.

She couldn't wait any longer.

"Stay here." The command left no room for argument. She shoved Damian deeper into cover, ensuring the shadows swallowed him whole. Then she stepped into the fray.

A bow found its way into her hands—snatched from a dying assassin whose chest was a ruin of bullet wounds. The arrows were League-forged, their tips designed to punch through steel. She nocked, drew, and released in one fluid motion.

The arrow streaked through the chaos, a silver whisper in the night. It found the cockpit of the nearest Apache, piercing the pilot's throat with surgical precision. Blood painted the glass as the chopper lurched, its controls slipping from lifeless fingers.

The co-pilot scrambled, hands grappling at the cyclic, but the bird was already spiraling. It struck the ground in a fireball that sent shockwaves through the battlefield.

Her warriors roared.

Talia became a storm. Arrows flew, each one a death sentence. She emptied her quiver, then discarded the bow and moved like vengeance incarnate. A mercenary lunged—she broke his wrist, stole his rifle, and put two rounds through his skull before turning the weapon on the next.

Gunfire. Screams. The stench of burning flesh.

She fought her way toward the fences, where more mercenaries poured in like a black tide. A soldier dropped from the wall, rifle swinging toward her—she was already moving.

Her knee crashed into his ribs, the impact driving the air from his lungs. Before he could recover, she used his collapsing body as a stepping stone, launching herself onto the wall.

Now she had the high ground.

A pump-action shotgun barked in her hands, its roar drowning the cacophony. Shell after shell, she cut down the reinforcements, her aim unerring. Bodies tumbled from the wall like broken dolls.

Behind the crumbling barricade, Damian watched. His small hands clenched into fists.

A mercenary spotted him—grinned—raised his pistol.

A blade flashed. The man's arm hit the ground before he could pull the trigger. His scream was cut short as an assassin's sword took his head.

Damian didn't flinch.

His gaze locked onto the fallen pistol. An opportunity.

In a heartbeat, he was moving. Small, fast, lethal. He snatched the gun, rolled into a crouch, and fired. Two mercenaries dropped before they even registered the threat.

"A child?" Their faces twisted in disbelief as they dropped dead.

Damian advanced, his shots precise, his stance that of a trained killer. The League's blood ran thick in his veins.

Above, the remaining choppers faltered. League assassins, now regrouping, rained arrows and launched projectiles with deadly accuracy. One Apache took a direct hit to its rotor, spinning wildly before exploding midair.

The mercenaries, once an unstoppable wave, now wavered.

But Talia knew this wasn't over.

To her ignorance, Slade's true objective wasn't the League.

It was Ra's al Ghul.

And somewhere in the fortress, her father was alone and outnumbered.